


Neon Halo

by goldensprite



Category: Bleach
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nightclub, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldensprite/pseuds/goldensprite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: 'Grimmjow/Rangiku drunk sex'. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neon Halo

Grimmjow popped the top two buttons on his shirt and rolled his sleeves up, folding them to just below his elbows. It was hot; even when the club wasn’t packed wall-to-wall with feverish, writhing bodies, there was still clinging, suffocating heat, stalking and skulking around the place like a jungle cat. He pushed his hair back and fanned at his face with a cocktail menu. The Las Noches ceiling was painted to look like a vast, sunny sky, and Grimmjow wondered if the illusion made the heat _worse_. He wondered if the calm night sky painted above the VIP section did the same thing, and tricked your body into feeling cooler.

Probably. The filthy rich didn’t like to sweat. 

Growling, he yanked his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it, fanning his body with his shirttails. He could if he wanted to; there was nobody there to see him, so it didn’t matter whether or not he was upholding the good name of this fine establishment (he knew he wasn’t irreplaceable; the discreet nametag Aizen had given him said, ‘Grimmjow J, Head of Security’ but Grimmjow knew it just meant that for now, he had the biggest muscles and the coolest head). Besides, it made a difference immediately, cooler air puffing against his sweaty skin and making him feel much saner, less like he wanted to smash the walls down to get in fresh air.

Normally he’d be home and showered by now, feeling better for having washed the stink of the place off his skin, but Aizen had started getting frisky with his fucktoys pretty early in the evening, and they’d taken off long ago. When Aizen asked him to stay and lock up tonight, Grimmjow had been thinking for the thousandth time what a ridiculous sight the man was; talking so calmly and looking so serene while he had two men in studded collars trotting behind him, their silver leashes gripped in Aizen’s hand, loosely, though, because you didn’t need to hold tight when your prey understood you were king of the fucking jungle.

It wasn’t just them, though; there seemed to be something in the air tonight, or something in the music or the drinks, that was making everyone a little... nuts. Grimmjow had noticed it, walking from one end of the club to the other, checking on the bouncers (Nakim and D-Roy at the front door, Shawlong at the more discreet side door you had to be hot shit to even fucking know about, and Edorad on the main club floor). In the main section of the club (the plebeian section, the bouncers said) the atmosphere seemed more sweltering than usual; there was more grinding and groping, more sweat and pheromones. It had made him tense. Usually, higher energy on the club floor meant drunks and fights, and more overall bullshit for him to deal with, but tonight the heat seemed intent on getting people _fucking_.

The VIP section, too, had seemed more pornographic than usual. He’d had to do a sweep of the room, to make everything seemed kosher (nobody killing anybody else or anything: Grimmjow thought that if you killed somebody while everyone else in the room was fucking you could probably be miles away before anybody even noticed). He was used to the people in there doing things that probably took most people a lifetime to admit to _themselves_ that they were even _thinking_ about doing (and that, to Grimmjow’s mind, was one of the things separating the filthy rich from everyone else), but this intensity of doing was unusual. Findor was in one corner, snorting something off the table, while Ggio knelt on the thick, lush carpet and sucked desperately on his cock, Mila Rose behind _him_ , rimming him, and Apache’s face between _her_ thighs, her hand moving furiously between her own. The normally reserved Tesla was in Nnoitra’s lap, Nnoitra’s bony fingers digging into his hips and grinding their bared cocks together. Even the usually placid Starrk had had his midget goth-loli girlfriend pressed into the seat, his hand busy under her short skirt, his mouth on her barely-covered breasts.

Il Forte, the bouncer working the door to the VIP room, had smirked at him and said, ‘At least they aren’t fighting.’

Grimmjow had just shaken his head, feeling like this couldn’t _possibly_ be his life; that you just _don’t_ walk into a room and find every single person inside doing something obscene, find the entire room stinking that desperate violence-stench of sex and greed and power.

But... no. There’d been _one_ person who wasn’t doing anything obscene. Matsumoto Rangiku. From what he understood, she was an old friend of Gin’s, which was why she and her buddies were even in the VIP room in the first place. If she’d been sweet on Gin in the past (and still was, most likely; Grimmjow sometimes saw her watching him when she thought nobody was looking), he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she would come here in the first place, to watch him playing puppy-dog with Aizen and Kaname. Tonight her two buddies (the tiny girl Grimmjow had been convinced was underage and the pallid blonde guy whose hair covered half his face) had been frantically making out. That had surprised him; he’d seen the girl’s eyes on Aizen and the guy’s eyes on Gin, but together they had always given off an air of definite platonic-ness that was a little... _sad_.

He’d been so damn relieved when closing time had finally come, miraculously without incident, and everyone had fucked off outside, drunk and horny and _somebody else’s problem._

He got a bottle of water from the bar fridge (water was always free to the help) and swallowed three-quarters of it, pouring the rest of it onto his face and shaking like a dog, scattering cool droplets onto his skin, raising goosebumps and making him shiver.

So... if this desperate night was finally over, and his security team had gone home and he’d locked the doors and dispersed the drunks and delinquents lingering outside... why the fuck was he still here? 

There was still someone in the club. 

He hadn’t heard a damn thing, hadn’t seen anyone on the club floor, but his gut told him that he wasn’t alone. He could _feel_ another pulse out there somewhere.

The main floor was clear, there was nobody behind the bar. The bathrooms were clear. That left the VIP room, and that was unusual. The VIPs were usually fairly courteous about getting the fuck out.

Grimmjow tossed his empty water bottle into the trash. Most likely it was just some worthless bastard passed out somewhere out of sight, but the feeling was annoying him. He straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and followed the feeling.

*

It was Rangiku. She was sitting on the bar counter, the neon crescent moon on the ceiling shining like a broken halo above her head. She was so absorbed in her drinking she didn’t even hear him come in. Looking at her now, he realised that he hadn’t seen her _without_ a drink the entire evening, had seen glassful after glassful of rainbow-coloured liquid sliding down her pretty little throat. By now, she was most likely _plastered_.

‘Rangiku,’ he said. 

It took a while, but she eventually turned, fixing him with bleary, unfocused eyes. She blinked at him slowly.

He sighed. Any other asshole he could have just dumped on the sidewalk, but she was a personal friend of Aizen’s, so he had to make sure she turned out alright. He _could_ have called Aizen, but the boss was probably still doing fuck-knows-what with Gin and Kaname, and would most likely not be happy about being disturbed. Maybe Grimmjow could drop her off at home, if she remembered where she lived.

She put her drink to her lips again, her eyes not-focused on his face, and began to swallow.

‘Hey... enough.’

He took it from her, and she let him, her hand flopping down to her lap, her head tilting downward. 

‘Hey.’

She didn’t look at him.

‘Hey!’

He put his hand on her shoulder and shook her slightly. Her eyes stayed fixed on his shirt buttons so he tilted her face up and looked her in the eye.

‘Where do you live?’

Her brow creased slightly and she looked at him like he was speaking another language.

_‘Fuck.’_

He walked around the counter and flung her drink down the drain. The club hadn’t closed that long ago, so there was still congealed sludge in the coffee machine, the strong gunky stuff that oozed rather than poured. He set it to warm up, hoping it would take her a good distance toward sober.

Behind him, she made a low, throaty noise, and his body went tense. He _really_ hoped she wasn’t throwing up.

But when he walked around the counter, a bottle of water in one hand and the coffee in the other, he saw that she wasn’t.

She had her hands on her breasts, her nipples sticking out like bullets under her shirt, and she was squeezing them, her head tilted back, mouth gaping. As he blinked at her, she slipped her low-cut shirt downward and slipped her breasts out from beneath, scratching the bared flesh with her nails and pinching on her nipples hard, gasping each time. She pulled one upward and latched onto it with her teeth; she was _ravaging_ herself. It made his own nipples sting a little.

_Great_. She was a horny drunk.

‘Drink this,’ he growled, hoping the noise might startle her out of her daze.

She turned to him, but instead of taking the cup he held out, she tilted forward (and he was positive she was going to fall) and pressed her face against his bare chest, moaning against his skin, her tongue coming out of her mouth and pressing against his skin.

‘Hey!’

Because he was preoccupied (trying not to spill hot coffee on either of them and also trying not to let her fall flat on her face) he only realised her hands were on his pants when it was too late. She got them undone (and somewhere at the back of his mind he wondered how she’d been coordinated enough to do that) and yanked them down.

‘ _Ow_! Fuck!’

The words were barely past his lips when she took him in her mouth, practically swallowing him.

_‘Jesusfuckshiteatingmotherfucking...’_

He’d never had to deal with a _female_ horny drunk before. The men usually latched onto Il Forte or D-Roy anyway, so Grimmjow had only ever dealt with one, a burly, bearded man who had grappled him and started humping his thigh before he even realised what the fuck was going on.

_Jesus Christ_ , he thought. _I’m being raped_.

Rangiku moaned and slid her tongue up and down his shaft, her throat closing around the head of his cock.

‘Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_...’

Grimmjow grunted, putting the cup and bottle down carefully, and gripping her head, trying to pull her away. But the harder he pulled, the harder her own hands clamped around his hips, tighter and tighter until her nails were digging into his skin. 

_‘Fuck_... Rangiku, for fuck’s sake!’

She just sucked harder and harder, and moaned and drooled around his cock until he was hard as _fuck_ , trying the best he could not to thrust down her fucking throat. 

_Fuck this_ , he thought.

He grabbed her ears, hard, and _yanked_ her off, ignoring the desperate, wet noises she was making. As he forced her upright (hoping she’d stay that way long enough for him to put his fucking pants back on, for fuck’s sake) she reached out and wrapped her hand around his cock, squeezing tight.

‘Cut it out!’

If she heard him, she didn’t show it. Instead she drew her thighs apart, planting each foot on a barstool, and bent her knees toward her chest, spreading them wide; he was mildly surprised to see that she was bare under her short skirt. She tightened her grip on his cock and pulled - fucking hauled him to her! - and he could do nothing but stumble forward, his pants around his ankles keeping him from getting his balance.

‘Look-‘ he began, but she jerked his cock between her thighs and began to rub him against her; she was hot and delectably wet, the feeling sending a jolt of pleasure through him and inciting all his desires to push, but that wasn’t even what stopped him.

The look on her face was so relieved, so _grateful_ , that anything Grimmjow had to say died in his throat. He could only stare. The neon moon-halo made her skin glimmer. Her face was tilted upward, her mouth open and gasping, her sweat-sticky hair spilling over her throat and shoulders. 

She was dragging his cock up and down against her, so fast and rough he found his eyes draw downward almost on their own. Her flesh was slick and glistening, her labia pushing back and forth under the slide of his cock.

Fuck.

‘Rang-’ he began, but she cut him off by pushing him inside. They both cried out loud - Rangiku arching backward over the counter, shrieking, and Grimmjow bending forward almost double, cursing, his hands grabbing at the bar counter for purchase. 

Rangiku barely missed a beat; she tightened her grip on the base of his cock and bucked, fucking herself on him like a pornstar.

Grimmjow grimaced, his fingernails scoring lines in the counter. He was panting, seeing double; still not sure if he wanted to grab her and fuck her comatose or yank her off his cock and slap her sober. She was so hot inside, and she was bucking and wailing like she’d been a lost, broken thing until this moment, this act. He’d thought she looked grateful before, now she looked _radiant_. Her moon-halo shining down on her blissful face made him think of saints, of angels, of ecstasy and revelation, and he wasn’t sure whether to be incredibly turned on or incredibly turned _off_.

She grabbed one of his hands and pressed it to her breast. He gasped: her skin was _boiling_. He was surprised he hadn’t realised it before, but she was radiating heat, the sticky, sweltering kind that prowled the corners of the club, inciting people to madness and fucking and ruin. Carefully, he ran his fingertips over her skin, following the red lines where she’d scratched herself. She arched into his touch, whimpering, her moans going higher and higher; when he reached her nipple and her voice broke at the touch, he realised she was speaking.

She was riding him harder and harder; her constant motion and her swaying hair kept him from reading her lips, and her voice was too uneven for him to hear her. 

He shut his eyes. 

His own pleasure was building, slowly. Cautiously. He tried not to think of her face. Tried to forget the devoutness in her pleasure, desperation, peace. He felt: heavy denim around his ankles. Wet, at his lower back, his torso. Sweat. His wet hair on his face. Ache, where she’d clawed his hips earlier. Pleasure. Heat. He listened: his own breathing, heavy and rasping. Barstools creaking, the rattle of glasses on the bar. And her voice, low and urgent. Like she was praying. 

_Fuck... this was fucked up._

Her muscles pulsed around him and she squealed and gasped, riding him desperately, fucking him harder and harder. He felt his own orgasm building, his own muscles tightening, tensing.

_Just let go._

He was almost there, his orgasm so fucking close...

Rangiku grabbed his cock, tearing him out of her. He opened his eyes, nearly snarling at her; she was leaning forward, looking up at him from groin-height.

‘Come on my tits!’ she shrieked at him.

She began jerking him off, rough and drunk and clumsy, and he felt his orgasm slip farther away from him.

‘Grimmjow, please! Please!’

The bliss was gone from her face; she looked so lost, so _empty_ , he put his own hand over his cock and jerked himself off, fast. Her eyes dropped to follow his movements, wide and hungry ( _starving_ , he thought). He worked his cock roughly, playing the most sensitive spots he knew, forcing himself to an orgasm that was more pain than pleasure. Rangiku grabbed his hand and directed him, spilling his come over her throat and all over her breasts, her pleasure-cries ringing too loud in his ears. 

Grimmjow pulled back from her, clutching the counter and panting. He blew his hair off his face and watched her: Rangiku was trailing her fingers in his come slowly, lazily. She raised her left hand to her cheek, smearing his come onto her skin, while her right hand came up to her lips. She sucked her fingers clean, closing her eyes and sighing; she had that look on her face again, like all was well now. Like this was all she needed. 

Grimmjow pulled his pants back on. The coffee he'd poured for Rangiku was still untouched, and he took a sip; it was cold and disgusting. His ears were ringing, but he could hear her whispering to herself. 

He found he didn't want to hear what she was saying anymore.


End file.
